Similarities
by DeepDownSlytherin
Summary: They are so alike, and yet so different.


_Again, writing freakishly late. This one is Sirius and Bellatrix shortly before (I like to think the night before) he runs away. _

**Similarities**

The last of the guests have gone. She turns away from the fireplace, and lets the cool, blank smile of a proper, pureblood lady - a Black lady - fade away. She unbuttons the tight collar of her dress robes and pulls the jewel-studded pins from her hair, leaving them in an elegant jumble on a table in the hall, loosing her dark hair over her shoulders. She might go home, but as the dinner party wore on late Uncle Orion and Auntie Walburga suggested she should stay the night. Now, combing her fingers through her hair to ease the headache she has developed, she is grateful for the offer, thinking of the soft bed waiting. She walks to the stairs, and catches the flickering light from the slightly ajar door of the drawing room. Her Aunt and Uncle had gone to bed hours ago, and all of the guests, even the younger ones inclined to drinking late into the night, had left, either for their homes or for the hot night spots of the wizarding world.

She pushes open the door, and finds her cousin, draped over the black sofa with the kind of carelessness that only a sixteen-year-old can achieve. He has flung aside his dress robes over the back of an armchair, dressed in only black trousers and a shirt so crisp and white it hurts to look at. Cufflinks with the family crest are tossed on the coffee table, and his sleeves are rolled up casually. On the floor, near his hand, sits a half-empty bottle of wine, the vintage they had with dinner, and one of the silver goblets bearing the family arms.

She stands in the doorway watching, as he stares into the fire. "You should never drink alone, Sirius."

He doesn't even sit up or glance around to look at her. "Join me, then."

He is offering her a truce, and she accepts, stepping into the room, their constant battle of the past weeks and months forgotten for a few hours. She sits in the armchair, draping her legs elegantly over the arm, leaning her head back against the velvet, eyes half closed.

She watches his face in the flickering light, and remembers what a strange age sixteen was. He's no longer a child, not yet completely a man. And yet she has noticed how he has changed this summer. His parents are foolish enough to think that he is growing into his role as the Black heir, accepting the fate he was born to. The laughing little boy who gave them such trouble has disappeared, but Bella sees the defiance is still there, it's just changed, become focused.

"What are you thinking, Sirius?"

He reaches for the glass, and she follows the movement of his hand, so elegant for a man. "Why?"

"Because you've got that look."

His mouth quirks ever so slightly. "What look?"

"That look you get when you're planning something."

He drags his eyes from the fire to look at her. "You think you know me that well, Bella?"

She laughs softly, full of arrogance and derision. "Of course I do, Darling."

"And how?" he asks, idly.

"Because we're the same, Sirius."

He turns back to the fire, as though to consider this, and she watches the firelight play over the distinctive Black features. They are strikingly alike in appearance- both beautiful- they have the kind of striking features that only years of careful breeding can produce. They have striking black hair to contrast with fair skin. They have grey eyes that are cool flint when they're calm and that turn to storm cloud wild when they're in the throes of some emotion, which is often.

They share the Black passion, the wild highs and lows of joy and despair, of rage and elation. They have been tested, and tempered, by growing up in their family- they are pure, cold, jaded, and arrogant. And yet behind the chill, the bitterness, they are endowed with a fierce loyalty, a reckless, violent, crushing sort of obligation to those they love. The other side of that, of course, is the bitter hatred of those who betray them, but she forces away that thought, as she always does the thoughts of Andromeda.

They have always been the wild ones, the conspirators, unmoved by the disapproval of adults, delighting in shocking the family. She knows he thinks she has changed, conformed, with the engagement to Lestrange. What he doesn't know is that she is now committed to something far greater than shocking Mother or teasing Regulus. Unconsciously, she lays her hand over where the mark lies, under the sleeve of her robes.

He sits up so that he is looking at her, and gestures vaguely to the bottle. "Wine?"

She nods regally, and conjures a crystal glass. He smiles in approval of her magic as she hands it to him, and the deep garnet of the wine splashes against the crystal, catching the firelight. She has probably had enough wine tonight, but she sips it anyway, staining her lips dark red. She can feel his eyes on her, intent now, but the silence between them is not uncomfortable.

"What?" she finally asks, as his gaze seems to go straight through her.

"You've done the family proud," he says caustically, immediately, as though he was waiting for her to ask. "A perfect pureblood lady, a lovely pureblood marriage…"

She catches sight of her reflection in the plate glass front of a cabinet across the room, and thinks she looks nothing like a pureblood lady right now. The pureblood marriage, well, she cannot argue with that, but it was her choice, and she's pleased with it. There are few she considers worthy of her, but he is.

"Don't try to change the subject, Sirius," she purrs, the wine making her feel drowsy and languid. "What are you planning?"

He leans forward, close enough to touch her though he doesn't. "But Darling, telling you would spoil the surprise."

She shrugs, and then he leans back and raises his glass to her. "Shall we have a toast, then? To the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?"

His voice is full of disgust and derision, but nonetheless she touches her crystal glass to his gleaming silver one bearing the crest. She arches one dark eyebrow at him, and adds "…and to the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

He gives a short, nasty bark of laughter, and downs the rest of his wine. He sets the glass down with a gesture of finality and stands, so that he towers over her for a moment. Then, he leans over and smoothes a lock of hair away from her cheek, his hand lingering for a second, hot against her throat. They stay frozen for a moment, old loyalty and new revulsion fighting for control of his face, and though she does not realize it then, his soul. She thinks again that they are the same- the same memories, the same history, the same past.

He leans close, his mouth almost brushing against her ear, and whispers "We're not the same, Bella."


End file.
